


Immunda

by ishtarelisheba



Series: Tenebrae [2]
Category: Once Upon a Time (TV)
Genre: F/M, Mental Health Issues, Post-Traumatic Stress Disorder - PTSD, Sexual Abuse
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-09-25
Updated: 2014-09-25
Packaged: 2018-02-18 17:34:59
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 947
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/2356754
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/ishtarelisheba/pseuds/ishtarelisheba
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Ficlet that I guess has become an accidental series about Gold working through the trauma of being Zelena's prisoner/slave. This follows Tenebrae.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Immunda

She's dressed and coiffed, all while he sat in his pajamas and watched her move through her morning ritual. It's a one-sided dance that he hasn't yet gotten back into the habit of doing alongside her every day. He helped with the bits that he usually does - zipping her dress, clasping her necklace. He's happy to do it, glad to be of use for _something_. When she steps into the bathroom, he stays in front of her vanity mirror to get out of his pajamas. And he stares.

Barefoot, black boxers too loose on his hips, he stands far enough back that he can see himself from head to foot. He hasn't _really_ looked at himself in a mirror in weeks, averting his eyes when there's a reflection in the morning room windows, or when he passes the entryway mirror, or when he goes to shower alone. He takes in his crooked nose, crooked teeth, the creases in his face. He can't look into his own eyes, though. Coward that he is, he's terrified of what he might see there. His gaze drops, and his eyes catch at the twisted scars at his ankle, his right foot not sitting perfectly straight as the uninjured one. It seems everything about him is crooked. He's ugly at the best of times, but shame chokes him at what he sees.

Months in cages have narrowed him again, made him bony again, stolen away some of the broadness that his shoulders had taken on, and any pink that might have been in his cheeks before...

Well. Before.

Being sequestered away from sun and decent food and exercise would do that to a body. His hand hovers over his stomach for a moment before it falls to his side again. He can't bring himself to purposefully touch his own skin.

So long was he without touch. Three hundred years of going decades at a time without someone laying so much as a finger on him, skin-to-skin. He'd never imagined he would be ungrateful that someone wanted to touch him.

Then there came those hard, demanding, long-fingered hands. Touching his arms and legs, his hair, his neck, petting him like a dog. The thought of them turns his stomach. How many times did she come into his cage in either world, making him open his legs so she could sit with her knees between his, smile that shark-toothed smile and tell him her plans to change history, make herself royalty in her mother's image, to force him into her bed, and what she would command of him there. And when she'd gleefully talked him into nausea and out of an appetite, forced him to push gruel down his throat.

Those things he's been deemed by so many people in his life haunt him as he looks at the mirror until he wants to curl in on himself and find a quiet corner somewhere. _Worthless. Disgusting. Filthy._ He feels the truth of them now more than he ever has.

He doesn't hear his wife come out of the bathroom, doesn't see her watching him from the doorway with worry in her face, and her arms have wrapped themselves around his middle before he knows she's there. He doesn't startle, at least.

She looks at him over his shoulder with bright eyes and bright smile, her loose curls brushing his shoulderblade, and _how can she even want to touch him?_

She tightens her arms around him so snugly that he can't even draw a full breath, and he has a flicker of _safe_ before it extinguishes again, and he loathes himself for the way his eyes sting. The squeeze she gives him is perfect, and as much as he wants it to continue, he knows he doesn't deserve it. He wants to smile for her, to be the one to give _her_ comfort, and he's a selfish bastard for making her have to be the provider of comfort for so long.

His mouth trembles with the smile he pulls up as he looks at her reflection, raising a hand to curl his fingers over her small ones. "I love you."

"I love you," she returns, and he can see her eyes shift slightly back and forth, and knows that she looks into his eyes in the reflection. He has the urge to slam his eyes shut. What if she _sees?_

It doesn't occur to him that she sees into him anyway, that she's an expert in translating his body language - the clipped wings of his hands, the draw of his brow, the rounding of his shoulders that he's trying desperately to square again.

She kisses the back of his shoulder. Her lips are warm and soft, and they feel wonderful. Shame burns through him. "Please," he says, voice small, pleading, and he isn't sure whether he begs her to stop or continue. Her kisses are holy things, and he's greedy for them. But someone so precious shouldn't have to come into contact with _him_.

"Look at that," she says, her eyes running down his body in the mirror.

He doesn't respond, not sure he wants to know which part she means.

She meets his eyes again in their reflection, smiling. "My beautiful husband."

He cringes.

Her smile falters at his reaction. " _I love you_ ," she tells him again, fiercely, and her arms tighten around him further. So tightly that his ribs ache.

Turning, arms slipping from around him and leaving him too cold without her, she takes an undershirt from the dresser and lets it fall unfolded. "Come on," she says, her tone gentle but firm as she gathers the dark cotton between her hands.

**Author's Note:**

> Immunda - Latin; dirty, filthy, unclean.


End file.
